He Should Leave
by heatherberry
Summary: Two missing scenes for Man in the Morgue one from Booth's POV, one from Brennan's ....he should leave, she should figure some things out....
1. Booth's POV

**Author's note: A missing scene from Man in the Morgue - one of the best hours of TV I have ever seen. I hope you like!...if you have any comments - good or bad - please please click that little review button!**

**Disclaimer: Not mine, no no no. **

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"No, you don't understand it has to be tonight...Alright...Ok... I said Ok... No, I'm sorry I understand...Yeah...Just add it to the list of favours I owe you."

Frustration boils over and he slams the phone down hard into its cradle, so hard it bounces straight out again and clatters across the coffee table.

Sheepishly, he lifts the earpiece and listens, hoping the call had already disconnected and Caroline hadn't heard his fit of pique. If the prosecutor thought he was angry with her for refusing to fly down immediately she might well have refused to come down altogether.

Dial tone.

He feels relief. The last thing he, or more importantly Bones, needs is for Caroline to cut them loose.

He sighs deeply and lays back onto the sofa, scrubbing his calloused palms across his face.

_"__You're welcome to the room. It's paid for__"_

He feels worse than useless. Standing up to pace and work off nervous energy he tries to catalogue exactly what he has managed to accomplish since arriving. Bones is injured, shaken, uncertain and now spending the night, alone, in jail. Well none of that is for the first time since he they met he admits, but it unsettles him, probably as much as it is unsettling her.

He huffs in annoyance.

'Not good enough.'

Talking to the four walls, he makes a vow.

'She's not going to spend the night alone. I'll sit in the waiting room all night if they won't let me in the cell block.'

He grabs his jacket and keys from the edge of the coffee table, and marches towards the door. But as his palm connects with the door handle, he realises his mistake. She will kick his ass the minute he puts his head round the corridor of the cell block, whether she is locked behind bars or not.

Knowing he is already sailing pretty close to the wind with her right now he retreats. This fine balance, this status quo between them, he's rocked it severely by ignoring her order not to fly down. She is glad he is here, not that she'd ever admit it. And not that he wants her to. From the moment she called, nothing was going to keep him from getting to her side as soon as possible, but equally, nothing was going to get them to talk about why he did that either.

'Dammit.'

He knows he should leave.

He has his own second rate hotel room across town paid for from his own pocket.

No, he can't stay. It would be encroaching on her privacy, and that has already happened enough. Despite his protestations, the New Orleans P.D. turned the place upside down after removing Bones from the room. They'd found nothing of course, aside for the gri-gri bag that Bones had handed them.

There was nothing to find. She is innocent. One hundred percent.

No doubt.

He considers the potentially damning piece of metal currently burning a hole in his pants pocket, a tiny piece of metal that could spell ruination for them both.

No doubt.

He should leave.

But he isn't making his way to the door.

'Dammit.'

He's given Caroline this number hasn't he? He knew he wasn't able to leave when he did that, that's why he is staying. Bones will assume he stayed and this is closer to the Department where she is being held.

'Of course she can always ring your cell!'

He knows he is on edge when his sarcastic self flagellating side emerges.

Flopping on the couch he takes deep steadying breaths. One...Two...Three...

He blinks and scans the room. It is deeply , what he would guess is called ethnic. Dark colours, earthy tones, furnished with cotton curtains and tropical wood. So much like Bones, dark, real and inherently natural.

He shifts uncomfortably. No way was he going to do anything so prosaic as admit the reason why he wants to be here. Now isn't the time to get all Goddamn girly. Sure, the place smells like her, her stuff is in the closet, in the drawers, in the bathroom. Being here is as close as he is able to be tonight.

A groan escapes him as he checks his watch. 2am. Caroline will be getting in at 8. He ought to turn in, get a few hours of sleep so he'll be compus mentus when she splits him open and uses his guts as a headscarf.

She will never let him live this one down.

'Dammit.'

He kicks off his shoes and twists sideways on the couch finding the inevitable - he doesn't fit. His feet are rammed against the arm of the two seater.

He knows now he has no choice, he'll have to take the bed. But he also knows he should avoid that, it's bound to smell like her.

The maids haven't been past today, part of the investigation.

'Dammit!'

Irritated to new levels, he further tries to delay as long as possible. He takes long strides into the bathroom, flinging the door so that it crashes into the wall... and one foot over the threshold he slams to a halt.

Dried blood stains the white tile the colour of ebony.

His stomach crawls and his mind reels. Fingers curling by his sides he again fights the urge to speed from the apartment to the jail.

This time the word chokes him.

'Dammit.'

He turns away from the stain, no longer able to look at it. He knows all the samples have been taken; Harding said she would instruct the hotel staff to organise the clean up for the following day.

Finding himself standing by the edge of her bed he sighs in resignation and moves his hand to his belt, pulling his jeans off. He flings back the blanket and lies on the sheet, acknowledging his obvious avoidance of contact with her bedclothes.

Catching a foul stench from the pillows he flings the one that the grigri bag sat on across the room. He watches it land and settle next to the couch.

Then, he lies still, willing himself to sleep.

He knows he has to sleep so he won't make a complete fool of himself in front of Caroline tomorrow.

He counts sheep, recites bedtime stories...he's good at that. Parker is in that stage of wanting the same story again and again so even though he only gets to spends one night a week with him, he can recite about eight stories off by heart.

But even the innocent stories that put his beloved son to sleep do not help and cannot clear the day's disappointments and resentments.

He knows, there is one task he has to do before he knows he will find rest.

It is 4.30 am when he finds himself on his hands and knees in her bathroom, scrubbing at the stain of blood on the cool tile.

--

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	2. Brennan's POV

**Author's note: Thank you all for the feedback on chapter one. It seems chapter two, Brennan's POV has been trying to get out of me all day...so here it is. I hope you enjoy! **

As the officer puts his hand on the crown of her head, pushing her firmly down into the rear of the cruiser, she looks upwards.

She sees him standing by the window of her apartment, watching as she is locked into the vehicle. He is obviously in the middle of a call as he has his cell phone pressed to his ear. But he continues staring right down at her, right into her eyes and he appears oblivious to the multiple people moving behind him. He is also seemingly ignoring whoever he has on the call.

She also notes that he still looks really angry. With her.

She wonders why; the Orleans P.D. are only doing their jobs and she is only doing what she ought by co-operating fully.

Narrowing her eyes, she squints to see him better through the glow of a street light. He looks concerned as she returns his stare, then suddenly seems to remember he has a phone to his ear. He doesn't even break eye contact when he snaps back to the conversation and continues what appears to be a heated discussion.

The officer who put her in the car opens the passenger door and sinks into his seat; The officer in the driver's seat starts the engine.

It occurs to her that she should raise her cuffed hand and wave. It seems like the right thing to do.

But as she determines that she will do just that, his shoulders drop and he blinks slowly before turning away from the window, probably called by someone in the room. He walks away from the window and out of her sight.

She isn't sure why, but losing eye contact with him is disquieting.

"Odd." She whispers.

"What?" The driver barks.

"Nothing." She lifts her chin and straightens her shoulders. The driver engages the gear and pulls away.

Only minutes later, the cruiser pulls into the precinct parking lot halting under a harsh white security bulb, lighting a double door that she determines must be the prisoner entrance. She shuffles in her seat getting ready to exit the car when instructed not wanting to give them any grounds to think her unreasonable.

She scrapes a knee against the cage in which she sits. Her body aches, especially her wrist where the cuffs dig into her skin, exacerbating the injury she sustained...how? She can't remember. How frustrating.

She catches the eye of the driving officer one last time before he also exits the vehicle. On the journey from her hotel, he repeatedly and systematically glanced at her in the rear view mirror. He wasn't hiding his interest and she postulated he was merely fulfilling a requirement to observe her.

However it was the sideways glances he kept giving his colleague that seemed incongruous. Surely they knew she isn't a risk to them having handed herself over willingly and she has co-operated fully.

But she also understands that she may be guilty.

Maybe she should keep quiet for now. Booth was as pissed off as she has ever seen himpulling his gun on another law enforcement officer. She doesn't know what to make of that. It was unsettling...unnecessary...courageous...

"Odd."

The passenger officer gets out and opens her door.

She's there on suspicion of murder and knows she'll be going through the whole process. It could take some time.

--

Closing the cell door, the warden walks away, ignoring her request for a glass of water.

She sits on the bed and rubs her thumb round and over her wrist, imagining the crack across the bone and the imprint it will leave. It really does ache now, even more so since the removal of the cuffs.

That pain, the hardness of the wooden bed on which she will have to sleep, the harsh white security light that streams through the high window into her cell, the noise coming from the adjacent cells – someone retching, someone else snoring. It could all be quite overwhelming.

It is overwhelming.

She lays on her back on the hard cot, and against her better judgement feels alone.

This place feels like that other place, the dark, hot room where she was held.

"Focus, Brennan. Positives."

At least this one has a window.

Yes, a window.

But suddenly that's not enough.

Feeling the familiar panic building, her heart beats irregularly and her breathing becomes shallow. She starts to sweat and yet her skin goes cold. All the signs of panic. Familiar. Terrifying.

She forces herself into the routine.

She takes deep steadying breathes. One...two...three...

"God."

It's not working...

One...two...three...

A tear escapes her eye and runs down into her hair.

One...two...dammit.

"Come on Brennan." She talks to herself. "Come on, think, think. Focus."

She scrunches her eyes shut and tries to image herself somewhere else. Somewhere safe.

Where was the last place she felt safe? The Jeffersonian. Yes. Her office. It is spacious, air conditioned, light. She imagines herself sat the desk, her ornaments around her, X-Rays on the light box, computer screen on, journals on the desk, coffee in a mug.

Imagining the details, always works. Her breathing is getting deeper.

She stays in the office in her mind. She looks around at the window, at the couch. At the pattern on the blanket she bought in Peru that lies over one arm of the furniture. At Booth sitting on the other arm.

"Odd."

Since when did Booth fit into her calming routine?

She looks into the picture again.

Yes, he is definitely there, one arm slung along the back of the sofa, legs crossed so that his trouser leg rides up revealing a garish sock. And he is grinning at her.

No person has ever been in her scenario before.

This time, she says it softly.

"Odd."

But despite his unplanned presence, she is inexplicably comforted.

She doesn't like the unexplained.

She wonders what it means until dawn light filters through the cell window, and the security light clicks off.

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